The Second Date
by Artful Doodler
Summary: Taken from John Watson's point of view. Rated M.


When Sherlock suggested going for a walk in the park after dinner I thought he was being romantic. I didn't think he meant _this_ park.

I knew it well, this scraggly patch of land separating a residential neighbourhood from a dilapidated business district, occupied by pot-smoking teens during the day, men on the prowl at night. Already, in the early evening, I could see the men gathering. Some sat in their cars, waiting to see what happened by, while others wandered the grounds, trolling. Across the park, near the restrooms, a man in white shorts did a slow stroll within a circle of light cast from a lamppost in front of the squat cinder-block building. Another man, in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, leaned against the building, one foot hitched up against the wall, smoking a cigarette, ignoring the guy in white shorts and looking right at us.

I fought back the memory: me on the floor in a toilet stall, the coppery flavour of a stranger's cum in my mouth, my own jizz soaking my T-shirt and matted in pubic hair. When I opened my eyes–

"You look lost in thought," Sherlock said.

My chest felt as if it were in a vice. Did he _know_ about my past? "It's this park. It's a little, um, creepy."

"_Cruisy_ would be a better description."

_Could've told you that when you suggested coming here_, I thought.

We first met at the grocery store, of all places. He caught my attention at produce. I saw him over by the prepackaged salads: five years younger than me; curly dark brown hair; cutting a nice figure, with an arse practically gift-wrapped in black slim-fit trousers. Our paths crossed again in dairy, and I got a closer view. I checked him out from the crotch up. By the time I completed my slow pan upward and reached his face has was smiling at me. I returned an embarrassed smile before hurrying past him.

He caught up with me in frozen foods, saying he thought he recognized me from somewhere. I said, "Probably from produce," and he laughed. Awkward small talk – and for me _all_ small talk is awkward – followed, ending with him asking me out.

The first date – your standard dinner-and-a-movie package – went well. I guess. Well enough for Sherlock to ask me out again, even though we didn't have sex.

That's right. No sex on the first date. My therapist's idea, her thinking being that by abstaining I could concentrate on relating to Sherlock as a person, opening the door to greater intimacy, blah, blah, blah. Easy for her to say; I wanted to blow him in the grocery store parking lot the night we met. You can take the Queen out of the tearoom…

But when Sherlock kissed me good night, I said: "I don't have sex and the first date." I even sounded halfway convincing. Still, if he pressed I would've reneged on my vow in a heartbeat.

"There's always a second date," he said, his voice a velvety purr, making my cock twitch. I was jacking off about five minutes after Sherlock left me at my apartment.

Now, in the park, he said, "I have an idea," winking and grabbing my hand.

We were heading to the restrooms. "What did you have in mind?" I was trying to choke back my rising panic.

Sherlock disengaged his hand from mine, moving it to the small of my back. He leaned in and said, "Thought we could have some fun with these guys."

The man in the white shorts ducked away into the shadows, behind a tree, as we neared the restrooms. The smoker remained at his spot against the buildings wall, staring at us brazenly. Thirty-ish, about average height, an OK body: attractive enough that he could go to any one of the city's gay bars and get a man and not have to skulk about a public park on a Friday night. He shot me a lecherous grin and slid a hand down to the mound in his crotch and squeezed it lewdly.

Like he was on to me.

I looked away, my stomach tightening. Sherlock's mischievous smile had hardened into something more sinister as he pulled me forward to the battered men's room door.

My heart was in my throat by the time we stepped into the restroom's dim interior. Only one of the light fixture's three fluorescent rods was functioning; one was dead and another was dying, flickering intermittently like a slow-motion strobe. The walls were covered in cracked, mud-coloured tile, beige enamel and obscene graffiti. The humid air smelled of mildew and stale piss.

Sherlock pushed me up against the wall opposite the sinks. He kissed me so hard I thought he might draw blood. My hands clamped onto his arse, my fingers tingling in anticipation of feeling the flesh beneath his trousers.

A cough startled us. At the end of the room, standing against the wall just outside the last toilet stall, a man watched us. He was older than either of us, at least fifty, his face hidden behind a full beard and a blue T-shirt hugging his barrel chest. Even in the weak light, the outline of his stiff cock in his jeans was plain, and he fondled it incessantly.

"Maybe we should go someplace else," I pleaded, my voice quavering.

Sherlock's hand went to my crotch. "Feels like you want to stay."

Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled and we were on the move again, me stumbling behind him, heading toward the man standing at the end of the restroom. He greeted us with an impassive stare, waiting to see, as was I, what Sherlock had in mind.

"Show us your cock," Sherlock said in a low voice.

The man's eyes went from Sherlock to me. "OK," he nodded. "Your boyfriend can do the honours."

"I think we should–"

But Sherlock pushed me forward. "You heard the man. Take his cock out of his trousers."

With shaky fingers I unfastened the man's pants, trying not to look at him as I did so. He wasn't wearing any underwear. His rigid cock sprang forward the moment I opened his fly. Its girth was more impressive than its length; it was topped with a snub-nosed head. I gave it only the briefest glance, embarrassed to admire it too blatantly in front of Sherlock.

"Go ahead and touch it." The man's voice was like smoke.

"He'll do better than that," Sherlock said conspiratorially, pushing open the stall door. "C'mon, baby. Get in there, like when we first met."

Not in the grocery store. Two months ago.

_I was there, on the floor in a toilet stall, a stranger's cum covering me face, my own jizz soaking my T-shirt and matted in my pubic hair. When I opened my eyes I discovered I wasn't alone. The door to the stall was open. Someone was standing there, watching me. I saw black shoes, black trousers, and a nice bulge in the crotch. By the time my eyes reached the intruder's face, he'd turned to flee. All I got was an intriguing glimpse, and he was gone. And then I was alone._

"It was you." My voice was dry and hoarse.

I was propelled forward into the stall. On my left, framed by scrawled messages promising good times and nine-inch dicks, a glory hole had been crudely cut into the plywood of the dividing wall. I spun around to face Sherlock, and saw him directing the stranger to the neighbouring stall. My eyes were more questioning than angry, and when Sherlock saw me, he answered with an encouraging smile.

I knelt on the gritty cement floor. Seconds later, the stranger's cock appeared through the glory hole. Sherlock stood at the stall's entrance, holding the door open, his smile gone now. He nodded, and I turned my attention to the cock poking into my stall, leaning forward and closing my mouth around it. A deep sigh sounded from the other side of the wall as I took the dick deep into my throat, my lips traveling down the thick shaft.

The air was filled with heavy breathing, sudden gasps, constant wet slurping – me sucking a stranger's cock. The stall divider shook as the man on the other side thrust his bulk forward. I forgot about renouncing my past and I forgot about Sherlock watching me. I sucked the mystery man's cock harder, eager for its creamy reward. My dick ached, and I massaged it through my trousers. I didn't unzip yet, not trusting myself to control my strokes.

The squeak of the door opening sent a chill through me – _what if it's the police?_ – but my fear was quickly eased by the stranger's loud grunts. "Oh, fuck yeah!" he groaned between strangled breaths.

His cock erupted in my mouth. I pulled away, letting his load splash onto my face. I rubbed the throbbing head against my smooth cheek. Grabbing the shaft, I squeezed the last drop of splooge onto my tongue.

The stranger's cock retreated through the hole. Grunts, sighs, zipping, the shuffling of feet, and he was gone.

Did Sherlock have his cock out now? I wondered. Was he jacking off? Did he want me to suck _his_ cock? I was about to turn and see, but then anonymous dick was offered to me, bigger than the last: at least eight inches, only partially erect. This cock also had the distinction of being uncut, its head still tucked within its sleeve of pink flesh.

Sherlock would have to wait his turn.

Gripping the semihard rod, I gently chewed the tip, the salty taste of precum leaking out from the wrinkled folds of foreskin. Slowly, I pulled back the prick's collar, revealing a fat, purplish head. My tongue prodded the fleshy folds, allowing the foreskin to roll back up, trapping my tongue against the head. I wiggled my tongue back and forth, enjoying the extra skin I had to play with. The uncut cock's owner trembled, making the wall between us shake.

The cock stiffened in my mouth, taking my own arousal to an excruciating level. My dick _hurt_, I was so horny. I'd be freeing it soon, but not yet. It was a challenge I often made myself endure back when: how many cocks could I suck before I gave in to the urge to get myself off. To date, I'd managed four before caving. My self-dare was partly for the agonizing thrill it gave me, my cock aching in my pants, neglected. But on a more practical level, I delayed touching myself because I knew once I came the spell would be broken.

A shadow fell over me as someone joined me in the stall. I turned to my left, expecting to see Sherlock but finding another stranger instead. He was young – early-twenties, I guessed – with a slender frame. A curtain of long brown hair fell forward as he looked at me, shadowing his face. Tight, faded blue jeans hugged his narrow hips, the worn denim stretching over a pronounced bulge. Wordlessly, the young man unfastened his trousers quickly and presented me with his beautiful cock. It was a decent length, well-formed and, like most dicks I saw, cut.

But I made this new guy wait, turning back to the uncut member poking through the hole, now fully hard and throbbing, the foreskin stretched back to reveal the purplish head. I sucked on it a minute, reminding the man I hadn't forgotten him, simultaneously reaching for the young guy standing next to me, stroking his cock while I swallowed another.

The young man stepped closer, and my mouth jumped from the uncut guy to this less anonymous cock. The young guy's dick disappeared deep into my gullet. I could feel him shudder, and he let out an involuntary "Oh!" He didn't trim his pubes – my nose sank into a cushion of coarse, curly hairs as I deep-throated him.

Abruptly, I returned to the uncut cock, sucking it in swift, long gulps. The stranger hissed and there was a hard _thunk_ as he rammed his hips forward against the plywood wall. Next came the flood of semen, washing over my tongue. I pulled my head back and held the cockhead against my lips, letting its spurts land on my face, the jism slowly sliding down either side of my mouth.

I gave the uncut cock's sticky head a kiss before it retreated. Through the hole I saw a glimpse of white fabric and wondered if I'd just sucked off the guy in white shorts Sherlock and I had seen outside earlier.

Back to the young guy. His cock was drooling now, a long gossamer string of precum suspended from its head. Leaning forward, I stretched my tongue to catch the salty juices oozing from his dick. He pressed the engorged crown onto my tongue, squeezing out another trickle of precum. My lips came down, tightening around the shaft, trapping the younger stranger's cock inside my mouth.

As I sucked him, I tugged at the front of his pants, pulling them down to reveal his balls. His ball sac was drawn up tight, the wiry hairs covering the scrotum standing on end, as if filled with static electricity. I nuzzled the fuzzy nut sac with my chin as I nibbled at the base of his cock. My tongue prodded the cum-engorged orbs, making the younger stranger hiss and grab a fistful of my hair.

I returned my mouth to his dick, relishing the feel of its sliding against my tongue and pushing against the walls of my throat. I swallowed every inch of him, and I wanted more.

The young man withdrew, suddenly. He started to stroke himself, his cock lubricated with my spit and his own juices.

A husky voice interrupted. "Cum on his face."

My young stranger was startled at the sound of Sherlock's voice, his hand flying away from his dick as if it were scalding hot. Sherlock's sudden appearance startled me, too; in my lusty delirium I'd nearly forgotten he was there at all. Sherlock nodded, wordlessly indicating the young man should continue. The expression on his face was somewhere between awe and catatonia. His gaze shifted from me to the stranger's cock, now aimed at my face and ready to shoot.

I closed my eyes and waited, listening to the wet, flabby sound of the young man pulling his cock at a feverish pace. Then: a groan exploded from the young man's mouth, milliseconds before his load exploded from his cock. Warm, heavy droplets splashed down my forehead, hit my nose, and singed the tip of my tongue. "Oh, yeah," whispered Sherlock. I opened my eyes then, catching the young stranger in the final spasms of his orgasm – his mouth slack, his body trembling, his cock oozing. Sherlock had his hands on the young man's shoulders, massaging them as he said something into his ear. The stranger pushed his dick downward, forcing his hard-on to meet my tongue. Making contact, he wiped the last thick drop of splooge onto my greedy taste buds.

A moment later, my young friend was stuffing his cock back in his trousers, careful not to look at me, or in Sherlock's direction, and then scurrying out of the stall like he'd just stolen something.

It was just Sherlock and me now. I watched intently as he undid his trousers, my eyes glued to the swell pushing against fabric. His trousers unbuttoned and unzipped, he exposed himself with one quick tug. His cock was so rigid it fell forward only slightly, parallel with his flat stomach. Finally seeing it – its pink shaft, its almost pointy head, the precum beading on the tip – made my lips tremble. Of all the cocks I'd seen, tonight and on every night before tonight, this was the one I wanted the most.

I started to reach for Sherlock's cock, eager to taste it, but he shoved me away, making me fall onto my arse. He was smiling the same conspiratorial smile he wore when he first pushed me into the stall. Bending down, he reached for me, hooking a hand around my biceps and hauling me to my feet in the same forceful manner he'd pushed me away.

Sherlock studied my face, and raised a hand to brush away a lock of sweaty hair that fell across my forehead. After this pretence of tenderness, he seized me violently, shoving me to the back wall, our bodies wedged between the stall's diving wall and the toilet. He forced his tongue into my mouth, his hands pulling on my belt, his cock pressing against my leg.

I responded with equal vigour, my tongue twisting around his while my hands groped wildly, pulling at his shirt, grabbing for his dick. Sherlock lost patience fumbling with my trousers and jerked them open, the top button popping off and clattering onto the floor. He kissed and licked my face, lapping up the sticky souvenirs left by the anonymous cocks I'd sucked, his mouth returning to mine to share the taste. My trousers were pulled down with one decisive yank, my tortured dick freed.

Sherlock forced three fingers into my mouth, and I sucked them in a way I wanted to suck his cock. When he withdrew his fingers, they were dripping with my saliva. Thus lubricated, Sherlock's fingers slid in between my buttcheeks.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard," he snarled, pushing his fingertips past my arselips, making me writhe.

Sherlock held his other hand below my lips and commanded me to spit into his palm. Just as I'd lubricated his fingers for fingering my hole, I was to provide lubrication for his cock. He handled himself almost delicately as he smeared the handful of my viscous saliva around his pulsating rod while his other hand continued to play with my arsehole.

Once he'd lubricated his cock, his hand went to his back pocket, returning with a rubber. My breathing was hard and ragged as I watched him tear open the condom packet with his teeth, pull out the rubber and unroll it over his wet cock, impressed he could do it with only one hand. He pulled his fingers out of my hole and brought that hand back to my face, giving me a whiff of my own musk.

"Spit," he said.

I hocked a big gob into his smelly palm, expecting this to be the lube for his sheathed cock. Instead, his hand grasped my aching hole. My body twisted and jerked like I'd been hit with a stun gun.

"I'm so close…," I said through clenched teeth. "You keep that up I'm gonna cum."

"That's the idea."

A burst of pleasure erupted and shot out of my cock. For a split second I saw my formidable load spurt, caught by Sherlock's other hand. Then I closed my eyes, my body weakening and my head growing light.

When I opened my eyes, Sherlock was rubbing his hard-on, coating the condom with my hot jism.

"Turn around," he ordered.

I faced the back wall and Sherlock clamped a hand around my neck, pushing me forward, forcing me to bend down. I braced myself against the tile.

He entered me with surprising care, easing his dick into my chute one deliberate inch at a time. Still, the pain was unavoidable, each advance of his cock searing my sphincter as it was stretched wider and wider. I knew pleasure would soon follow.

We stopped moving: Sherlock was all the way inside me, his silky pubic hair tickling the crack of my arse. The pain of his entry had waned, overtaken by the pleasurable tension of his cock buried in me.

We started moving: first Sherlock, thrusting his hips forward in steady strokes; and then me, pushing backward to meet him. We were quiet at first, the only sound that of his sinewy thighs hitting my arse and the squish of his cock sliding in and out of my hole, lubricated by my juice. But as Sherlock began to pick up the pace, so, too, did our noise level increase: hard breathing, grunts, gasps, and groans. Anyone walking by the restrooms could've heard us, but at that moment I didn't care.

Sherlock called me a _filthy slut_ and _cum whore_ – names I'd called myself all the way into therapy, but now they went right to my cock, bringing it back to life after its brief respite. He rammed me viciously, his body crouched over mine, each thrust pushing my face against the stall's grimy wall. One hand gripped my waist, the other pulled on my collar, ripping the fabric. His breathing raged loud in my ear.

Sherlock froze, suddenly, emitting a sound like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Oh, _yesssss_," I hissed as he came, feeling his cock pulse against my arselips as it pumped out its load.

We sank to the floor, his dick still deep in my chute. We lay together on the stall's dirty floor, Sherlock nibbling at the nape of my neck, playing with my cock – fully hard again, throbbing to his touch – and me, my heart racing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest pressed against my sweaty back as he struggled to catch his breath. I smiled, thinking how my therapist was right after all: it was worth the wait.


End file.
